


Better Than None

by good_old_days



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 14:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17490059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/good_old_days/pseuds/good_old_days
Summary: A kick in the teeth is good for some/A kiss with a fist is better than noneHolmes challenges Watson to a warm-up before his next boxing match and Watson gets beaten to the punch.





	Better Than None

"Nothing to the face," Watson says, his agreement tempered by skepticism.

            It's all well and good for Holmes to go about bruised and scuffed. People are used to that; it adds something to his eccentric public persona, already becoming legend even in these early years of their association. But Watson is a doctor. He's respectable; he has clients who might disapprove of their physician appearing with bloody knuckles and black eyes. So when Holmes cajoles him into a warm-up round before he boxes at The Punchbowl, there are myriad ground rules to be laid. They are in Holmes' little lair above the pub, the detective perched eagerly on the edge of a rickety chair, Watson in the center of the room with his arms crossed in disapproval.

            "You will be at a distinctly unfair advantage, Holmes. Given my injuries from Maiwand, I can offer you no challenge. Why not find a more suitable opponent?"

            In truth, Watson thinks being thoroughly beaten—as he surely will be, he's bet on Holmes in the boxing ring enough times to know the man's prowess—is going to be embarrassing, tiresome, and probably painful.

            "Having watched me fight so often, my dear Watson, you’re better suited than anyone to tell me where my flaws have emerged. Recall that the extensive travels of our last case have kept me away from The Punchbowl for nearly half a year. I am woefully out of practice."

            This is true. They've trailed across most of Europe behind Holmes' latest quarry, a wearisome excursion in spite of its successful conclusion.

            "And I will be,” Holmes adds solemnly, “most mindful of your weaknesses, as always."

            His dark eyes shift subtly with the concern that always rises when Watson leans too heavily on his cane or stretches his leg painfully after a long carriage ride. Watson smiles.

            "Though,” Holmes continues, “they did not stop you from felling several of our opponents in Brussels last month."

            Watson wants to point out that the situation Holmes is referring to was different—his options were fighting or standing aside and leaving his friend at the mercy of eight rather large, well-armed men. But Holmes looks so bloody _eager_ that he finally sighs and relents, unbuttoning his jacket.

            "Only one round. And if you hit me in the face Holmes, so help me—"

            Holmes shushes him victoriously, waving a dismissive hand. It's a familiar situation, Watson muses as his friend rapidly unbuttons and discards his shirt; he has almost no ability to resist Holmes' schemes, no matter how wild or dangerous. Watson's crisply starched shirt soon joins his jacket on the back of the chair. The detective fights bare handed, a decision that leaves Watson wincing in sympathy whenever he returns home with raw and bleeding fingers, but Watson can't very well risk the damage. Holmes helps him wrap his knuckles in tape scavenged from his medical bag, which usually accompanies them on these excursions to treat the inevitable post-match injuries.

            They begin a few feet apart, shifting warily on the bare, worn floorboards that creak when they move. Watson knows that his only advantage is familiarity; he's watched Holmes fight downstairs countless times, enough to know at least a few of his favorite tricks. Plus Holmes will be hindered by the restrictions that Watson has made; one of his preferred tactics, a quick and uniquely crippling blow to the temple, is off limits. He catalogues a few of Holmes' other choice moves as he watches the subtle shift of muscle in the detective's shoulders, the flex of his fingers before he closes them into fists.

            Holmes strikes first, of course. Watson has decided that this is the smartest tactic, gauging what tone the other man will set for their match. Watson dodges and the blow glances off his ribs. Holmes is damnably fast, already back in position, chin tucked down, when Watson recovers. They go on like this for some time, Holmes striking and Watson knowing him just well enough to anticipate and avoid solid contact. But he notices that Holmes is getting a bit closer to a hard blow every time, catching him off guard, and he understands that it will be a relatively one-sided fight.

            Then the chair intervenes.

            Skirting Watson for a more advantageous position, Holmes—clearly used to the uncluttered boxing ring—trips over the chair where they've draped their discarded shirts. He doesn't fall, but the stumble gives Watson his chance. He darts in, throws a punch a bit wildly, and is stunned when it connects with Holmes' face. When the detective looks up in surprise, his bottom lip is cut and bleeding, the first bright splash crossing his chin as he returns the blow with one that knocks Watson solidly in the stomach and leaves him gasping. 

            There is a downbeat of recovery before Holmes gets in another punch to the top of Watson's arm, aimed carefully at a place above the elbow where nerves are near the surface so his hand is left tingling and numb. He tries to shake the feeling back into it, fist clenching loosely, but Holmes is on the attack now. Watson catches the predatory look in his friend's eyes. Unable to do anything effective with his half-numb right arm, he makes a desperate lunge with the left as Holmes forces him backward across the small room. His fist catches the sharp angle of Holmes' clavicle, where a bruise begins to bloom immediately. 

            The pain seems to make Holmes redouble his efforts, a thin sheen of sweat starting on his forehead and at the base of his throat, mingling near his lip with droplets of blood. He strikes Watson once—the same, tender place along his ribs as before. Twice—the diaphragm, and Watson gasps as the air leaves his lungs. Suddenly, his back is against the splintery wall and Holmes is already poised for another blow. They are very close, chests almost touching with the rise and fall of their rapid breathing, when Holmes drops his hands. The tip of his tongue flicks out to find the beaded blood on his lip, a faint grimace forming at the saline tang.

            Watson reaches up as though he's going to slam a fist into Holmes' jaw, then relents at the last second with a smile and cuffs him gently.

            "Most unsporting, Watson." 

            Holmes is also smiling now and Watson's stomach flips at the wry twist of his lips. Their eyes meet, glance apart, and then Holmes' strong, thin fingers are grasping Watson's arm, digging into the soft place he'd targeted moments before. Watson is forced back more firmly against the ragged boards, their chests meet, and Holmes presses his mouth hard against Watson's, dry on one side and slick on the other with a sheen of blood.

            Watson's lips part in shock. This has happened twice since they took the rooms at Baker Street nearly three years ago. Once when they were both outrageously drunk about a year into their partnership, and then again in the jubilant moments after a particularly difficult case was finally solved. Watson had initiated both instances, though Holmes had been far from reticent in returning the gesture. But after the second time, Holmes had explained, in his measured way, that while his attraction to Watson was not insignificant, he felt it unwise to compromise their partnership, which he valued above all else. He had said it in the kindest words, clearly desperate to not offend, and Watson had carefully packed away his feelings, knowing Holmes was, as always, correct. They had gone on successfully since then. Until now. 

            "Watson." Holmes' voice galvanizes him to life. "If you continue to respond so unenthusiastically, I will be forced to deduce that this is not a course of action you wish to pursue."

            "I—"

             "This is why you will never best me at boxing, I'm afraid. Your consideration of your opponent's conduct, if you are well acquainted and can reference their patterns of behavior, is too ponderously reliant on consistency. Past actions _can_ be an accurate indicator of future ones, but deviating from such patterns is the most effective method when unsettling a familiar attacker. You'll recall our case last winter in Wolverhampton—"

            "Shut _up_ Holmes."

            Watson forces the smug expression off the detective's face with a sharp kiss, more tongue and teeth than lips, the warm copper of blood seeping into his mouth. In return, Holmes shoves his fingers through Watson's neat hair, the other hand tightening on his arm to draw them closer together. Watson's nerves are already humming, and he knows he won’t last long once Holmes drops the hand from his hair to fumble open his trousers, his narrow, elegant fingers wrapping around Watson's cock, the pad of his thumb grazing over the head in a delicate arc that makes Watson's breath hitch painfully, still uneven from that earlier jab to the diaphragm. As the strokes quicken, he drops his head against Holmes' warm shoulder, turning to mouth at the crimson bruise spreading along his collarbone. Holmes sighs and tightens his fingers, hips shifting in an attempt to find some kind of friction against the thigh that Watson presses between his legs.

            Watson is close but Holmes is impatient, and his other hand strays down to cup Watson's balls, a movement he’s proven to be shockingly effective during their previous encounters. _Past actions and all that_ , Watson thinks distractedly. The result is almost instant; the doctor's body stiffens and shakes against the rough planks of the wall as he comes, teeth digging into Holmes’ bruised shoulder just a little too hard. When Watson's mind clears, he sees the other man rubbing the spot cautiously. His fingers come away damp with saliva, but luckily not bloody.

            "Dreadfully sorry," he says, his voice rough and low.

            Holmes only smiles, reverses their positions so he is leaning against the wall, and places his fingertips on the corresponding area of Watson's clavicle. He presses down gently, one eyebrow quirking in suggestion.

            "I’m certain you can think of a suitable means of apology."

            Sometimes Watson absolutely hates Holmes and his infuriatingly imperious nature, but at the moment his suggestion is more than welcome. The chance to see the detective undone is so rare that he could never pass it up, and he sinks to his knees with something like reverence, rewarded with a quiet sigh as he opens Holmes' trousers and draws his cock out. The first flick of his tongue warrants another breathy exhale. He takes Holmes into his mouth, sucking hard, and the other man barely manages to stifle a shout. Mindful of the fact that Holmes is meant to fight soon, Watson sets a rapid pace, the rhythm quickly matched by the arc of Holmes' hips away from the wall to meet him. When he glances up, Holmes' dark eyes are sharp and hot, his hair damp at the temples and wildly disarrayed, the tendons in his neck tense underneath the fresh imprint of Watson’s teeth. Impulsively, Watson swallows him deeper and simultaneously traces his thumbs along the lines of muscle that angle in at Holmes' hips.

            Holmes' eyes widen and his mouth falls open, identical circles of surprise and pleasure. "Watson, _please_ —" he manages, and then he's coming, body shaking and eyes boring into Watson's then drifting down to follow the motion of his throat as he swallows. They sink down onto the dusty floor together, sides pressed together companionably and breath slowing. In spite of himself, Watson reverts quickly back to his role as physician.

            "You're still bleeding,” he says, reaching out to touch Holmes’ swelling lip.

            "I'll tell them downstairs that we fell out over a woman."

            Holmes smiles as Watson digs through his medical bag and finds a bit of gauze to dab at the cut, applying gentle pressure until the bleeding stops. He watches indulgently as Watson attempts to restore order to his tangled hair, but a knock interrupts the comfortable solitude of the moment, followed by the gruff voice of The Punchbowl’s barman.

            "Fight starts in ten minutes, Mr. Holmes.”

            "Duly noted!" Holmes calls out in cheerful reply. He does up the buttons of his trousers and buckles his belt before leaning forward and kissing Watson lingeringly. "This was most invigorating. I trust you won't deny me another warm-up round next week?"

**Author's Note:**

> An oldie from a long-gone account, reworked and reposted.


End file.
